Nanami's Last Request
by x178x
Summary: An ode to my favorite Utena character.


Nanami left on the paper the last stroke of the last hieroglyph and put the brush aside. That was all with preparations. Now, she could get it started. She approached the mat slowly, took off her shoes, placing them neatly nearby, and got seated, her knees on the mat, her heels propping up the body. She tied her legs together with a rope – to ensure her body remaining in a decent pose when it's over.

"Take the sword, Tsuwabuki," without turning her head, she ordered Mitsuru who stood behind her, his posture unsteady. He bent obediently to grab the handle of her scimitar which now seemed to be so cold, his hands shaking, his palms wet. He happened to hold this sword once, and even to use it in a fight, but those memories had blotted out of his memory, falling on the Dueling Area as black rose petals.

Mitsuru straightened up, sighing quietly, for Nanami-sama not to hear. How crazy and unbelievable it all was! What would Miki-sempai say should he witness it? Mitsuru understood himself that something terrible and irrevocable, unthinkably irreversible was going to happen, but still raised the sword, holding it at his waist height. He devoted his life to Nanami-sama, and, as she asked him to be her kaishakunin, he won't fail, acting flawlessly and with honor, despite the curved bar of steel trembling so treacherously in his bungling hands. How could he reject her, even if she asked for a thing like that?

Nanami unbuttoned her blouse slowly, trying to breathe steadily: she needed to concentrate entirely on what she was going to do. It wouldn't be easy, but that was the only way for her to leave – perfect, flawless, appropriate for the best. Swallowing up a lethal dose of pills cowardly or jumping from a roof for rubbernecks' delectation wasn't acceptable for her. Only some Aiko, or Keiko, or meek Himemiya Anthy could do it, but not Nanami. Despite she wasn't a sister of her brother anymore and couldn't serve him dedicatedly – she still was superior. And she was going to prove finally and cogently that she indeed deserved an elder brother like Touga, not just drew his attention by coincidence, like all his countless and faceless damsels.

Nanami pulled her blouse down from her shoulders taking her arms out of the sleeves and tucked it under her knees. When it all would be over, her body mustn't fall flat on the back. Mitsuru looked, breathless, at her thick blonde hair flowing down her naked gracile back, lit up by the bright sunlight.

Nanami took a dagger lying in the corner of the mat and touched her belly with its tip, choosing the most appropriate point for a stab and the most convenient hand position. A chill ran down her spine as the cold steel touched her skin. Nanami took a deep breath to get over her anxiety. She hadn't got anything to worry about anyway – after all, she was ready to die. Back then, at her first duel with a girl who got expelled after the dueling game was over, that impudent and offhand upstart Tenjou, Nanami finally decided that everything she had got involved in was a real battle for her, not just a game with sham castles and revolutions. And, although her rose was knocked away, she kept on fighting and would fight until Tenjou killed her – there obviously were no chances to win – if Touga didn't tell her to stop. Probably, she really died in that duel, but not in biological sense: since then, she had begun to live as if she were dead already.

"Get ready, Tsuwabuki," Nanami bent her head slightly, her hair now thrown at her chest, exposing her thin white neck to Mitsuru's gaze. He had to cut the sword through that neck after Nanami-sama would disembowel herself, and thinking of it made him want to throw the scimitar on the ground and run away. He used to dream of staying with Nanami-sama forever, but now, after the slash he was going to sever her head with, it would never happen. Maybe – he clung to his only vague hope – at least now, in her final seconds, he would act as an elder brother for her?

"Are you ready, Tsuwabuki?" asked Nanami, mentally addressing a similar question to herself and answering it positively with a hint of pleasure.

"Nanami-sama…" mumbled Mitsuru, doing his best to prevent his voice from trembling and giving out the tears running down his cheeks. He didn't know himself what he wanted to say: the last 'goodbye' or…

"I asked if you're ready or not, idiot!" Nanami raised her voice, spurring both Mitsuru and herself.

"I'm ready, Nanami-sama!" Mitsuru had already raised the scimitar above his head, staring at two vertebrae covered with thin white skin. Cold sweat covered his face as he imagined the scimitar crushing, through his fault, her head or shoulders instead of cutting the neck exactly between those two vertebrae. Looking at Nanami-sama's tense hands, ready to dig the steel blade deep into her stomach, he recalled his dream to kiss her. Could he ever imagine touching Nanami-sama's neck with her sword instead of his lips? And how intimate are the relationship between the decapitator and the one being decapitated?

Away, away, stupid thoughts! Mitsuru blinked frantically to get rid of the haze before his eyes.

Nanami closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Now there was nothing apart from the dagger in her hands. She needed only to stab her stomach and move the blade to the other side of it, from the left to the right. Only that. But why her hands were wet and trembling then? No, she couldn't linger anymore! Nanami exhaled abruptly, putting all her power into a sharp jerk of her hands. It was too painful, unbearably painful! Straining her whole body, her eyes closed not to see her own hands covered with her own blood, Nanami attempted to push the blade through the intractable flesh of her spasmodically shaking body, but - in vain. It was too hard, and not only because of the pain – there was too little power left in Nanami's thin hands, not enough to rip the abdominal muscles. If only she was a tomboyish type, like that Tenjou – she would definitely have the strength to finish it up! Overbearing the pain, Nanami pulled at the blade stuck in her flesh, and the thick hot blood streamed from the wound in spurts. She felt the blood from her lip she bit through not to shout aloud running down her chin. Or were it her tears, or – oh, no! – was it her nose running?

"Nanami-sama..!" a scream came from behind her back. Did that stupid brat Tsuwabuki cry out loud? No, it couldn't be over in such a disgraceful way! She wouldn't let go of the dagger and collapse on the mat, calling a doctor, in her servant's face, she wouldn't lie in hospital being laughed at by all her former friends and bear his impudent everyday visits! No way! Her hands moved to the right, and Nanami, even through the unbearable pain, realized that she had succeeded.

His face twisted in a grimace of fear and misery, Mitsuru slashed. However hard he tried to keep his eyes open, they closed by themselves a fracture of second before the steel met the flesh. He felt the blade bumping into something – his mind refused to recognize Nanami-sama's neck in it – and pulled it back, upwards, not to sever the head completely, trying his best to overbear the powerful inertia of the blade. The blood splashed around, and it took a great effort not to drop the scimitar, but to lower it slowly, wipe off the blood with a handkerchief and put it on the ground next to the mat, avoiding looking at what was lying on it.

Finally, shuddering with sobs, he forced himself to look at Nanami-sama. Mitsuru heard that people feel sick when looking at corpses and blood, and got ready to turn away when needed, but, to his surprise, he didn't feel nausea as he saw Nanami-sama's body lying on its belly in a huge pool of blood which still was streaming from the split neck. Her head was lying close to the stub of the neck, and her hair, wet with blood, was spread around.

Mitsuru collapsed on his knees, now looking away from the remains of his mistress. He was successful: Nanami-sama's head hadn't rolled away, completely severed, but remained connected to the neck with a thin strap of skin in accordance with the ritual. He, Tsuwabuki Mitsuru, performed the duty of kaishakunin and Nanami-sama's last request with honor. It didn't matter what was going to happen from then on.

Mitsuru remained on his knees, crying silently, for some time – maybe just for seconds, maybe for long hours. Finally, he, keeping at a distance from the deceased Nanami-sama, came around the stationery left on the ground. He took his secret diary from under his jacket and put Nanami-sama's dying verse between its pages, without reading. He dared to allow himself that privilege – to make of his diary a foreword to the last poem by the one he devoted his life to.


End file.
